Dog Days: A Fateful Encounter
by Pinlie
Summary: John gets a puppy. Harry watches John's puppy while he goes on a date. The puppy runs away. Sherlock finds the puppy and... thinks it's cute. Too cute, in fact, to simply dump out on the streets. So Sherlock takes the case of finding the puppy's owner because of course he can tell the puppy belongs to someone and our story begins... FLUFF!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who believed in sentiment. He's never been shy about his self-declared sociopathic nature, and that meant no silly ideas about _feelings_ like love or grief or jealousy. Certainly he wasn't one to feel _pity_ for people. And especially not for smallish, pudgy, wrinkly _puppies_. No, that was not something he did. So why was he here right now, in this situation?

The bull dog pup whined again, and did its best to look as pathetic and helpless as possible. He glared at it, unimpressed by this playacting. Its tongue lolled out and it grinned at him- and since when do animals _grin_ at people? He'd never seen it- but anyways, it grinned at him, its mouth open wide and its tongue drooling. On his carpet. This was unacceptable (obviously) and Sherlock quickly put a stop to the nonsense by crouching down next to it, snatching it up, and placing it precariously atop the kitchen counter, casually brushing aside a couple of unwashed, chemical-stained dishes in the process.

He passed a cursory look over the quivering dog, noticing how it was well-fed, but not perfectly groomed and how its nails hadn't been clipped properly in months, probably causing it an undue amount of pain. He growled, he was NOT feeling bad for it. Not at all.

"You," he spat, pointing accusingly at the poor puppy, "You stay right there." With a dramatic turn and a flapping of his robe, he stomped out of the room shouting, "MRS. HUDSON!" and generally being un-ignorable.

So that is how, three hours and several terrifying (for those who encountered him, not for Sherlock himself) shopping trips later he ended up with a lapful of bull dog puppy and a much cleaner, puppy-proofed flat that now contained several new additions in the form of a water and food bowl and some stupid dog toys that Mrs. Hudson had squealed over in aisle three of the market. He stared balefully at the puppy, which decided to respond by slobbering all over his face with wet, smelly licks. Disgusted, he shoved the dog off.

"Go away! I should've dumped you as soon as you managed to get in here," he yelled, but he was aggravated with himself more than anything. He was confused- why had he allowed this _thing_ to stay? Why hadn't he simply tossed the pup back on the street where it'd undoubtedly come from? Then he glanced back at the dog, which hadn't moved from where he'd shoved it off, and stopped wondering. With a mournful snuffling and puppy eyes that could convince a serial killer not to pull the trigger, the thing was practically more dangerous than a nuclear bomb.

"GAHHHH!" Why must it be so adorable?! He knew he claimed not to have a heart but he had eyes, and they functioned perfectly well, thank you very much. And his eyes could see that if he kicked this small helpless bundle of wrinkles out right now, all the good in the world would probably implode and then, for good measure, explode, and then implode again. It just wasn't an option. So, he guessed he had a new flat mate, for now anyways. Until he figured out where the puppy came from, and to whom it belonged.

Sherlock knew it wouldn't be easy, to find the owner of one stray dog in the middle of London. But he wouldn't be him if he didn't love a good challenge.

"No fear, you'll be gone by tomorrow, you slimy canine," he smirked as he began cataloguing everything he could from the dogs appearance, and recalling every bit he hadn't deleted from their original encounter. This would be boring, he knew, but at least it was something to do. Everything was so terribly dull without a case.

*****AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Thanks for all the reads, reviews, and follows:)_

_This will be continued by popular demand only (meaning only if i get people who ask for it to be continued and a ongoing stream of readers)_

_I hope you enjoyed chapter one. Please see the additional note at the bottom of chapter two if you want to get the chance to name the puppy._


	2. Chapter 2

*****AUTHOR'S NOTE!**

_Hi, yes, I'm the author of this work. I'll be updating as often as possible. I will promise to update everyday only if I get reviews and follows everyday- sorry, I'm not a good self-motivator. So please review, tell me what you want to happen next, what you like and dislike, what you think is realistic or not, spelling or grammar mistakes, brit-picking, or anything else you'd like to say. Please don't give hate mail, I'd appreciate that._

_The plot of this story, since I didn't have room in the summary to fit it all, will be thus: (Warning: some SPOILERS) Sherlock lives, constantly bored and completely alone except for his not-a-housekeeper landlady, Mrs. Hudson. That is, until one day when a bull dog puppy somehow sneaks into his flat and startles him with its pure adorableness. Unable to simply toss it back onto the streets, and reasonably certain it must belong to someone, Sherlock begins searching for the puppy's owner. John is that owner, and when he left his new puppy in the hands of his sister Harry for the night while he went on a date, the puppy ran away. Now he is trying to find his little bull dog pup._

_It will be told in alternating chapters (as in, John and Sherlock will attempt to make nice and share and wait their turns to tell their perspective of the story. I'm not sure how well-behaved they'll be about it though) All characters belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC, and the lovely ACD._

...

John Watson had never particularly had a problem with pets. He was rather indifferent about the whole thing, never having to deal with living with one before. He hadn't ever understood why and how people got so attached to the d*** things. Well, not until now.

When he'd returned from the war, invalided by a wounded shoulder and a bad leg (psychosomatic, yes, but it hurt anyways) he had been assigned a therapist and a bedsit. The bedsit was a total h***hole, and he moved out as soon as he could. The therapist, however, wasn't as easy to get rid of. Ella, she was, and stubborn as well.

She wouldn't leave him in peace (and sign off on his mental health certificate for work readiness to his new job at St. Bart's, courtesy of Mike Stamford) until he did two things for her. The first was to start a blog, talking about things that happened to him every day. Since nothing ever happened to him, it wasn't hard to start a blog and then proceed to leave it absolutely and truthfully empty. The second thing wasn't as easy to blow off though.

Ella wanted him to get a "companion" to live with him. (Those were her words, not his.)

"So you want me to get a flat mate? Why?"

"It will help you adjust to civilian life to live with a normal civilian. Not to mention, your trust issues need some serious help. Living with a stranger might help with that as well."

"Who would want me as a flat mate?" And that was the real problem. He really didn't mind getting a flat share with some other bloke, but he couldn't think of anyone who'd put up with his night-terrors and adrenaline addiction. It was honestly a bit lonely; coming back from being a part of a cohesive unit of brothers-in-arms to his current situation wasn't easy.

He told Ella he'd think about it. And he did. He went on walks and slacked off on his blog and though about how he could possibly do as she had asked. Then one day he got a call from Mike, asking him if he wanted to grab a drink together. He said yes (of course he did, he didn't have anything else to do) and met Mike at seven at their favorite pub. A rugby game was on the telly above the bar. They talked, mostly about their training days and what John's job would entail. Finally, around ten o'clock , by which time they were completely plastered, Mike brought it up.

"Johnny-boy," he giggled, clapping his hand on John's shoulder and trying not to unbalance and tip off the stool. Stamford was a laughing drunk.

"Yeah Mike, wassit?"

"You n' me, we're frien's, righ'?" His face contorted in an attempt at looking serious, an attempt that was thwarted by uncontrollable giggles.

John pretended not to notice his friend's break in composure, and carried on as if discussing a particularly serious operation, (albeit, he never did that while drunk, normally).

"Yea, 'course we are. Why, wassup?"

"I needa favor John, an' yer the only one left I kin think of ta ask. Whaddaya say, help an ole frien' out?"

"Well, wha' issit, Mike? I kin't say yes if I don' know what I'm sayin' it to, can I?"

"Y' see, there's this dog… well, it's more a puppy really, an'…"

FIN, for now. Will be continued only if requested via reviews.

...

*****ADDITIONAL NOTE:**

_I'm holding a competition of sorts for the puppy's name. Whoever submits the best dog name (the judge is me) by the end of the day (midnight of 9/20/12) will name the puppy and also be allowed to make two suggestions to the plot which I will do my best to fit in._

_UPDATE: The puppy's name(s) has been chosen. Thanks to everyone who submitted names!_

_Big thanks to all readers and reviewers! I love you all, here, have a bunny_

()_()

('.'=)

(")(")


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**

**PLEASE SEE THE ADDITONAL NOTE IN CHAPTER TWO TO HAVE A PART IN NAMING THE PUPPY! this chapter is the puppy name reveal chapter, which is complete except for the actual puppy's name. go figure:P**

**UPDATE (9/22/12): The puppy's name has now been chosen. Thanks to everyone who helped out.**

_Thanks for all of you who have continued to follow this story. I hope you can take the time to review, but if not your readership is appreciated all the same. This chapter of John's will put the story's timeline nearly up to date and ready for the real action to begin. I hope you like it._

…

That night at the pub, Mike told John all about his wife's English bulldog, Missy, who had just given birth to a litter of puppies two months ago. He and his wife had managed to sell or give away all of Missy's pups except the runt, whom they had named Toby. Mike was getting really worried- his wife was getting too attached. One dog around the house was work enough; he didn't think they could handle two.

John saw where the conversation was going, even in his inebriated state. He tried to protest but then a thought struck him- a companion! The puppy would surely fulfill Ella's requirement for a companion and then he'd be free to start working at Bart's and pay off all of his bills- BRILLIANT! (Or so it seemed in his drunken thoughts)

The next morning, however, when he assaulted by an insistent bark-whine combination that probably could've woken the dead, he wasn't so sure. Actually, he wasn't sure of much at that particular moment. Hangovers had always hit him harder than most people; he'd gotten teased for that all throughout college. He didn't remember much but- ah, yes; he did seem to recall something about a brilliant dog and a bull idea… or was it a bull dog and a brilliant idea? He really didn't know anymore.

After a cup of tea and some paracetamol, he realized that he knew one thing: he now had a dog. John Watson did not shy away from his responsibilities, even when they had been practically forced upon him while under the influence. He faced his problems head on, and he would do the same in this case.

So… a dog. He could live with that. He glanced over and noticed in peeing on the carpet… s***! This was going to take some getting used to.

He groaned, sat up, and located his cane. Then he limped awkwardly over to the little pup and shook his head.

"Bad dog," he growled. The puppy cowered; tail tucking between its legs in the most cliché pose he'd ever seen. But then he made the mistake of looking at its face, all wrinkly, baby-soft fuzz and big droopy eyes, sorrowful and repentant.

"D*** you, cuteness and all. You go outside next time!" The puppy's tail started wagging. He tried to fight a smile. What was it that Mike had said they'd named it? Oh yeah…

"Toby?"

The puppy barked and jumped up, knocking him down to the floor where he was thoroughly sniffed and kissed by his new "flat mate."

**A/N:**

_Just a quick update, I wrote it because I was in a writing mood and that mood should always be taken advantage of. It's not a particularly good update either, sorry. More soon._

_PLEASE REVIEW:)_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock wasn't experimenting on the dog, per say, as he was analyzing it. (Or so he'd informed a very outraged Mrs. Hudson. Who knew she'd turn out to be such a huge animal fan?) Either way, it wasn't like he was harming the thing, (or like he even could, what with those _infuriating_ puppy eyes), so he didn't know why she was complaining.

Thus far, his analysis had given him some very unsatisfactory, mixed results. He could tell that the owner was someone with a rigid schedule (businessman, military personnel, lawyer?), had been on a drinking binge the night he'd left the puppy (but while normally this would point to alcoholism, none of the usual signs were there), and lived somewhere much smaller than his own flat, (but took the dog on long walks a lot.) He knew that wasn't enough data to single out an owner, so he'd begun to experim- rather, _analyze_- the dirt on the puppy. He'd also googled different features of the puppy and found out it was an English bull dog; (the military thing was looking better and better.)

Added to that, the puppy (and it was getting tiresome, calling it "the puppy" constantly. He'd have to temporarily name it… his brain started to search for an appropriate one) was extremely energetic. And demanding. Like right now for example, the puppy was standing by the door, whining incessantly and scratching at the paint job on the base of the door. He was slightly wary of taking the puppy- oh! He'd name it Scout, a military name. Perfect- Scout then, on a walk. What if he led Sherlock straight to his house? Then the mystery of it all would be a moot point. (This was also the reason he didn't put out missing/found posters. Where'd be the fun in that?)

However, it was being most insistent in the matter, and he decided that if he took Scout exactly the opposite way that he wanted to go, they'd be safe (except he'd know which direction the dog lived, but he would soon be finding that out when the dirt samples were ready to be analyzed.) So he located the lead that he and Mrs. Hudson had bought the previous night, hooked Scout to it, and headed out for his first experience in walking a dog.

...

John and Toby had been living together for three months, and getting along fabulously (John realized he really was a dog man, and loved going on long walks with his new "companion"), when it happened. He got a date. He came home and told Toby all about her, this Sarah girl. (It had become a habit, talking to his puppy instead of the blog.) He had asked her out on a whim and was pleasantly surprised to have her accept. But, de told Toby sternly, he still didn't trust Toby on his own quite yet. The innocent-looking puppy still created chaos of his simple flat in protest of being left home alone. (He kept him in a crate for the first three hours while he worked, then took him on an hour-long walk for lunch, and crated him again for three more. Toby seemed to take it as his sleeping time and was becoming slightly nocturnal. John was just glad that Toby wouldn't be getting in the way of the job he'd finally managed to secure. But Toby wouldn't appreciate an extra several hours of crating, and John wouldn't be in any mood to walk him properly when he got home.)

And, unfortunately, Mike and his wife were both busy. So, with some trepidation, he had called Harry up, and asked her for a favor. She had been only too happy to be able to hold one over her younger brother, and had gleefully (_too_ gleefully in John's opinion) accepted. And he had warned her, begged her, not to drink. Told her that Toby was an extremely intelligent dog and would get into all sorts of trouble if she didn't watch him properly. She had waved him off; assuring him she'd be diligent in her care. He was a little uneasy, but he figured if she didn't watch Toby closely enough and he destroyed her flat, she deserved it. He hadn't thought _this _could happen.

When he got back, around eleven from a lovely dinner-date that neither of them had wanted to end or escalate, he had been pretty exhausted. He decided he'd pick Toby up in the morning. (Oh, how he regretted that now. D*** his laziness.) Now, after a morning of desperate desperate searching, he was on the verge of panic. (Harry had tried to say sorry, of course she had. She'd cried and begun to apologize but he'd been too angry, too scared to listen to her.) And this, having to go to work and pretend like nothing was wrong and flirt with Sarah and smile patiently at patients, this was really getting to him. He could only hope someone with a big heart and open doors had found his mischievous friend, (and could only think of all of hundreds of probabilities against that happening. Just the other day he'd heard about a dog fighting ring...)

**A/N:**

_So, currently there are two names for the dog, Sherlock's and John's. Thank you to everyone who helped name them. I will pm the winners for their "prize". Also thanks for all the very encouraging reviews and for everyone who has kept reading. :) Please keep giving me feedback so I know if it is good enough to keep updating or if I need to change anything._

_NEXT CHAPTER THEY MEET!_

_To the reader who is called Tabby, I used one of your names (Scout) for a name in the story, however I have no way of contacting you. If you want to claim your prize, please send me a pm or another review._


	5. Chapter 5

For a puppy that couldn't weigh more than fifteen pounds, Scout was very good at pulling Sherlock along. He had to put all his weight behind the lead to prevent him from going where he wanted. At first, Scout tried to resist Sherlock's strict guiding tugs. But soon he reluctantly settled down and allowed himself to be led towards Bart's hospital. Obviously, dogs weren't allowed _in_ the hospital, but Sherlock was reasonably certain that it was a safe spot to be in. (The chances of the owner having a connection to the building were significantly lower on average than other locations due to the fact that he had met, observed, and deduced nearly everyone in it, and would know if any of them, other than that Stamford man, had an English bulldog puppy. (Stamford's wasn't a puppy anyway, it was decidedly full grown.))

So he led the puppy to the hospital, and all seemed to be just fine until they rounded the corner, putting the hospital in full view. Suddenly, Scout made a break for it, running full speed toward the building. Sherlock, not expecting the puppy's rebellion, lost his hold on the lead immediately. Cursing Scout for reducing him to chasing after household pets like a domestic (dull) man, he took off after him. (But why? Why was Scout so determined to go to the hospital? AH! It seemed he had miscalculated… Scout must have ties to it. How?)

But he was wrong again. The little puppy wasn't heading towards the hospital at all, but rather, a man walking out of it. A tan, (been abroad?) blonde, greying man with a cane and a limp (psychosomatic… trauma? Ah, military service. Afghanistan or Iraq?) And oh, this was going to be a bit not good, the puppy was pouncing on the man and (oops!) knocked him clean off his feet. Drat.

"I'm sorry about that, he's a bit overeager and- Oh. You're the owner, I assume." Because as he watched Scout lick and crawl all over him, the man, this small soldier of man, he was smiling, a big, brilliant smile that didn't help the adorableness levels of the entire situation because puppy kisses plus_ that_ smile equaled a cuteness overload that Sherlock had never encountered before. "_Well there went all pretenses of sociopathy, right from the start,_" thought Sherlock as he was unable to keep the twitching of his lips from becoming a full blown (soppy- ugh.) smile.

And of course, because Sherlock was having all the luck of someone born on a Friday the thirteenth, under a ladder, whose first screams shattered a mirror just as a black cat walked by, the man looked up at that precise moment. He immediately stiffened, closing off all emotions that could lead to any distasteful… facial expressions. But it was too late; the man had already seen him smile.

"Hey, are you the one who found Toby? He looks like he's been taken care of, thanks!" His smile stuttered a little under the unimpressed glare of one secretly embarrassed Sherlock Holmes. "Oh right, I should introduce myself, yeah. Sorry about that, I'm John Watson, a new doctor at St. Bart's, you know, the hospital. I just got hired on but… umm, well, it's nice to meet you," he was rambling now, and realizing this, he cut himself off and offered his hand to shake. Sherlock sniffed, (normal people are so boring, at least when they're alive), but allowed the man to shake his hand.

By way of response he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" (He was still curious after all) and was slightly gratified by the stunned look on John's face.

"Umm, Afghanistan, but, sorry… how did you know that?" He paused in a moment of self-doubt. He hadn't recognized Mike right away either, maybe… "Do I know you?" he asked, a little scared to hear the answer.

But Sherlock was shaking his head. "No, no. I simply observed, something most people," he smirked in disdain, "don't bother doing." John tilted his head to the side; a quirk he had observed in the puppy as well when thinking. (He wondered who had learned the gesture from whom.)

"What do you mean, you observed? How could you possibly know that I've been to Afghanistan if you don't know me? Heck, even some people who _do_ know me wouldn't know I've been there."

"Do you like the violin? I play it; and sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you?"

"What… wait, huh!?"

"Flat mates should know the worst about each other. I assume a few experiments wouldn't gross you out too much; you are a doctor after all, and you used to be an army doctor, so you'd be pretty used to seeing gore and the like…" he trailed off, talking more to himself than anyone. Just as John was gathering his wits again to respond with a healthy what-the-heck-are-you-on-about-you-crazy-wack-job-who-said-anything-about-flat-mates, Sherlock's attention refocused sharply. "No, I wouldn't think so. So, Dr. Watson, meet me tomorrow at 221B Baker St, around seven. Don't be late," and with that said, he whirled around and began to walk away, leaving a flabbergasted John, still on the ground with the puppy on his lap and its lead tangled in his legs.

"Wait a bloody moment! What the h***! Who said anything about flat mates?" Sherlock stopped and looked back.

"I did. I happen to get along with your puppy very well, better, in fact, than I could've ever imagined. You yourself are not insufferable either, and if you add that to the fact that you are about to be kicked out of your flat because you can't afford it alone, I think the arrangement is perfectly logical. Now, I'm afraid I have to be off; I left my riding crop in the mortuary yesterday, and I can only hope Molly found it and saved it for me."

John scrambled to his feet, leaning only lightly on his cane to pull himself up. "So that's it then? We've only just met and you want to get a flat share, solely because you like my puppy? We don't know anything about each other; I don't even know your name!"

"On the contrary, Dr. Watson, I know that you are an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. You work at Bart's, but you've only gotten your job here sometime in the past month, although you trained here when you were in med school. I know that you have an alcoholic brother who you don't get along with, and I know that you suffer from a psychosomatic limp and have just stopped seeing your therapist about it. That's enough to be going on for now, don't you think?"

John simply gaped.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and, as I said, the address is 221B Baker Street." And then he was gone, lost in the London crowds with a flap of his large coat.

**A/N: **

_Sorry for the slow update, to make up for it this chapter is a bit longer than usual. Thanks for your continued support! I'll be wrapping up this fic within ten chapters if all goes as planned, so please stick around for the end! Also, keep R&Ring, it's what makes me update!_

_Also, I really had a hard time writing this chapter. So, if you have you'd like to critique it or tell me where I could improve, I'd be very grateful. (I honestly don't know, I just hated this chapter after I wrote it. But I'd been torturing you guys long enough, making you wait two days, so I posted it anyways. Sorry for the lack of quality:P)_


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